Ancestry lives in the present tense.

People hear that word and think only of the gone … names whispered at funerals, faces fading in old photographs.
But what I’ve learned, moving between Hartford, Boston, and Cidra, is that ancestry also breathes in the people standing right in front of us.

It’s in a dancer’s skirt flaring like an echo.
It’s in the hands of an elder guiding a child through a simple task that somehow becomes a sacred one.
It’s in a musician carrying a rhythm older than any of us, bending time with every note.
It’s in the quiet, everyday caretaking … the son steadying an aging parent, the daughter bringing warmth back to a room with just her presence.

These moments aren’t nostalgic.
They’re continuations.

I photograph ancestry not as a record of who we were, but as evidence of who we still are
the gestures, the teachings, the rituals that refuse to disappear because we keep performing them without even noticing.

My images are small inheritances.
Tiny transmissions.
A reminder that ancestry is not a static lineage
but a living practice that moves through us…
in every celebration, every lesson, every shared breath.